DEAR BOARD OF GOVERNORS AND MEMBERS:
Surely all of you at Weeping Ruins Country Club must know how painful it is for me to write this letter. Weeping Ruins has been my life these past 20 years. How well I remember my first round of golf at the Ruins. It was the day the water had finally receded from the back nine after Hurricane Gina, which, ironically, was the name of the first cart girl I married.
I played the East Course that day. This was before we took the second, third and seventh holes from the North, the fifth and sixth from the South, and the fourth and 15th from the West, and integrated them into the East in an effort to host the U.S. Open someday.
Yes, the changes were expensive, but not as expensive as the sand we imported from Saudi Arabia to replace the brown dirt in our bunkers. A finer sand was needed, we were told by every visiting pro. The pros also suggested a larger locker room, wider fairways, softer greens, removal of the two lakes and a better chef.
I'm proud to have led the fight to make those improvements. We might never have been given a spot on the PGA Tour if we hadn't. I'm only sorry that I won't be around for the inaugural Deutschland Acquisition & Takeover Classic next May.
As I think back on my first round at the Ruins that day, how could I ever forget who was in the foursome with me?
Dr. Bob (Close 'Em Up) Sloan was one. He was always proud of the fact that he could remove six gallbladders in a single morning and never miss his afternoon tee time.
There was Easy Ed Cooper, the Prince of Insurance. I used to get a kick out of teasing Easy Ed about his passion for fine print.
And of course there was Knobby Cockrell, four times club champion, a man I'd always thought was my friend until lately. Obviously he hasn't gotten over me dropping the bottle of vodka on his left foot. I can see how the accident might have affected his stance. But you'd think Knobby might've had some sympathy for my loss. It was the finest potato vodka they make in Poland.
I want everyone to know that I apologized profusely to Wild Bill Conover, club president. I shouldn't have made the joke about his wife drowning in the pond left of 14. It was a reminder that you can't be too careful lining up a putt. Anyhow, all I said was, it shouldn't happen to an Exxon heiress, but at least he has the stock to remember her by.
Excuse me. I feel a mighty thirst coming on, and I see the old potato beckoning to me. There, two swigs should smooth things out.
Now then. I want to explain in full about the incident with Cindy, the new cart girl. As you know, Cindy is the younger sister of Tammy, the second cart girl I married -- the one who left me for our tennis pro, "Rex the Wonderhorse." I don't recall his real name. In any case, they are no longer together. He now parks cars at a hotel in Naples, Fla., and she is a ski instructor on a man-made mountain in Dubai.
To set the record straight, all I did while Cindy was pouring me a vodka rocks on the 11th fairwag ... fairway ... was ask her if she had a valid place mat ... passport ... and suggest that she hadn't seen Sorrento until she had seen it with fleas. With me, I mean.
I never at any time put my hands on Cindy, not that she would've allowed it anyhow after I vomited on my new golf sloose ... shoes. Nevertheless, it's with this letter that I hereby tend my registration ... resignation ... from your club with a heavy heart. But I leave knowing that my story has been accepted by my dear wife, Noreen ... Nadine ... Maureen ... whatever ... and I leave with nothing but fond memories and a clear constance ... conscious thing ... deal.